Rubik's Cube
by Garrideb
Summary: Wilson gives House a Rubik's Cube, but House already has a favorite puzzle. He snaps a few more pieces into place.


AN: I realize my one-shots are starting to feel formulaic, but I'm working on new styles. Really. As always, I love feedback of any kind.

The Easy Bake Oven was actually released in 1963, and quite possibly isn't the deathtrap I make it out to be.

I.

House walked past a crying young woman on Thursday morning. She was sitting on the curb not far from one of the hospital's side doors, and she was sobbing into her hands, her hair shielding her face like a strawberry blonde veil.

He could tell she was trying to stifle her cries by the way she gasped for breath, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Every few seconds the harsh, hiccup-like breaths were punctuated by a moaning sound that may or may not have contained words.

House paused. There was a small plastic bag lying abandoned at her feet, tipped to the side so that House could see the contents - a stack of worn Animorph books and a puzzle. She was here to see a family member, he decided. No one else would bring used items to a patient. It had been a sick child, of course, and one who had been sick for awhile. A child who had just landed in the hospital would be receiving different things - stuffed animals and toys, the most obvious comfort items.

His theory was supported by the location of the young woman. Most visitors used the main entrance. It was the intended starting point after all, with large maps and a handy information desk, where Cuddy tried to station some of the less bitchy personnel to guide newbies in the right direction. A patient of visitor only found the shortcuts after a great many trips to the hospital.

House was certain that she wasn't the child's mother. If the child had been so close to death, the mother would have been the last to leave the bedside. Besides, this girl's styled hair and hip clothes screamed 'no dependents'. There were exceptions, of course, but as House glanced a final time at her, he was certain of his conclusion: she had come bearing gifts from home for her little sister, only to find that her sister had just died.

She let out a keen like an injured animal, but the sound was abruptly cut off as House stepped into the hospital and let the door shut behind him. He headed for the elevators, ready for a real challenge.

II.

The tag said 'Happy Birthday, House'. It was sitting on House's desk, wrapped in pale green paper.

"Your present sucks," House complained when Wilson stopped by two hours later.

Wilson gave House a bemused look. "I got you a Rubik's Cube, not a hooker." The bad joke earned Wilson a scowl. "Seriously, House, you're always complaining that you're bored. You bug me when you have no case, or when you're waiting for test results, or when a case has stumped you." Wilson, who had been standing in the doorway, now strode up to his friend's desk. "You bug me before work, after work, and during most of your many, many breaks.

"So now, before you come to me, spend some time on the cube first. It'll provide you with hours of entertainment. At any rate, it'll keep you occupied longer than your usual five minute distractions."

House looked at Wilson incredulously. "First of all, I'm not a teenaged boy. It takes me a bit longer than five minutes. Second, this won't give me hours of fun. It's too easy."

"Easier than a hooker?"

If anything, House's scowl deepened. "Can you please stop thinking about sex? I'm trying to disparage your gift."

Wilson ducked his head to hide his smile. "Fine, fine."

"Like I was saying, it's too easy. This thing would take me..." House picked up the cube and turned it around in his hands, inspecting it. "...a half minute, tops."

"What? No way!"

"Wanna bet?"

"Sure." Wilson grabbed the cube from House's hands. He turned partly around to shield the puzzle from House and started twisting the colored blocks every which way. "Ten bucks if you can solve this in 30 seconds. I'll time you."

After a minute or so, Wilson handed the Rubik's cube back to House. He fiddled with his wristwatch while House positioned the cube between his hands. "On your mark, get set, go!"

House wasted no time. In an instant he was peeling off two of the colored stickers on the cube and switching them.

"House!"

The diagnostician paused, looking up. He had the cube in his left hand, a red sticker on his right middle finger and a green one next to it on his ring finger. The other fingers on the hand were currently busy peeling up a yellow sticker. "What?" He asked, all innocence.

Wilson sighed.

"Hey, it's not my fault if you failed to lay down some ground rules." House said.

"You know the rules."

"But you put ten bucks on it. With stakes like that, why should I follow self-imposed rules? I'll want to solve it as quickly as possible."

"You weren't solving the puzzle, you were dismantling it!"

House gave him a long, hard look. "Why can't both be true?"

"Right. I'll deduct ten from the amount you owe me. And in the future I'll impose the rules."

A look of delight grew on House's face. "Perfect. It's settled then. Whenever I get bored I'll page you, and you can hang out here as I take a swing at this thing to make sure I don't cheat."

Wilson blinked a few times at his friend. After a moment he shook his head, turned around, and walked out of the office. "Happy birthday, House." he called over his shoulder.

"Clear your schedule this afternoon - I don't have a case!" House shouted after him. The door swung shut. With a shrug, House reapplied the stickers to the Rubik's Cube, not bothering to line them up straight. He used the handle of his cane to nudge aside the dish holding his tennis ball, making room between it and a cup holding white board markers and his laser pointer, where he then tossed the cube. "Welcome the the arsenal," House told the bright block solemnly. "I have high expectations of you."

III.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the small room. Wilson held the scan up to the light between them, and they silently began searching.

House found it first, and the second he did he redirected his attention to Wilson. He wanted to see the exact moment it registered on Wilson's face, the exact moment Wilson realized he was holding a death sentence in his hands.

He didn't have long to wait. Wilson's wide-open eyes were flitting back and forth, but they caught on the tiny shape and froze. His pupils widened just a fraction and the muscles in his hand tensed even as Wilson let out a long, slow breath. House read the expressions as they flashed across his face - sadness, resentment, anger, and pity.

The emotions were like the tiny teeth on a chain saw, but they hardly got a chance to tear into Wilson. All too soon his eyes turned away from the scan and House could tell that he was thinking of the best treatment plans to manage pain and push back the inevitable date.

House has stood by Wilson's shoulder enough to know that the chain saw's running time has gotten continually shorter. The obvious conclusion was that it was getting easier, but House knew better than to jump to conclusions. Besides, in House's experience, change was rarely good.

Some days when House was particularly bored, he wished that he could, ghostlike, follow Wilson around. He'd float through the day at the oncologist's side, silent and invisible. He would collect all the tiny figments of emotion, of reaction, that would otherwise slip away unobserved, lost forever. Who knew what was given away in those moments Wilson lived privately?

But he wasn't a ghost, so he made do with the uncooperative body he had. In between cases, when there was nothing worthwhile for him, House might stand on the balcony where he could just see Wilson through the slanting blinds. When he was feeling less anthropological, he'd interrupt his friend's work with a game, a joke, a rant, or a revelation. And in those times, no matter how self-centered House sounded, there was always a part of him centered on Wilson.

IV.

"Hey," Wilson said offhandedly, tossing House a small item wrapped in festive paper with party hats, balloons, and the words Happy Birthday scattered across it. House caught it in one hand.

Cameron, Foreman, and Chase had glanced up when Wilson had entered the diagnostics boardroom, and now Cameron gave the oncologist a baffled look. "House's birthday was two weeks ago." She pointed out.

House rolled his eyes over Cameron's head, and Wilson saw an opportunity to play. "Of course it was. This is for something else entirely."

"We always exchange gifts on this day. Last year I got him that tie he's wearing." House jumped in. He never could pass up a good improv session.

Foreman eyed Wilson's tie - a red number with a horseshoe pattern - doubtfully. Cameron kept her attention on House, and asked "So what's the occasion?"

House's eyes flickered to Wilson, giving the younger man the go-ahead. For a split second he tried recalling any actual celebrity birthdays or obscure holidays that might be today, but all he could think of was a little girl in the clinic who had burned herself on a birthday gift this morning. He gave a mental shrug and ran with it. "It's national Easy Bake Oven day."

"What?" Cameron asked. Foreman's expression was clearly saying the same thing. Chase, on the other hand, had on a strangely secretive smile. Either he was on to the joke, or he'd had experience with the prolific toy.

"On this day in 1957, the Easy Bake Oven was released," Wilson said. "Are you going to open the damn present or not?"

House started to pick at the paper. "This better not be a scented candle," he muttered. "You know how much I hate re-gifts."

Cameron frowned. "Why would you celebrate that?"

"Are you kidding? The Easy Bake Oven has done more to weed out stupid and clumsy children from our population than any other toy." The paper tore and House let it drop to the carpet. With a raised eyebrow he turned towards Wilson, holding up the gift. "Another one?"

"You'll notice that I painted the squares on that one."

"What did you use, nail polish?"

"Of course not. That stuff comes off too easily. What?"

House's right eyebrow was almost at his hairline. "A bit obsessive, Jimmy?"

"I'm curious - are you the pot or the kettle? I'll also have you know that I tried out several models, and I can safely say that you won't be able to pull the blocks apart on this cube without breaking the damn thing. It's made of shoddiest plastic found in the Eastern hemisphere." Wilson gave his friend a large, genuine smile. "I've already scrambled it. I don't want to see you in my office before it's been solved. Happy Easy Bake Oven day, Foreman, Cameron, Chase." He nodded to the fellows and left.

"He gave you a Rubik's Cube to celebrate a toy oven?" Cameron asked, sounding almost frustrated. Foreman stood up and made his way to the coffee maker, patting Cameron on the shoulder as he passed her. "It's no use trying to get them. Remember how they celebrated Talk Like a Pirate Day?"

"Don't dis Wilson's Joe Froggers." House snapped. "And Cameron, didn't you hear anything I said? Wilson gave me a Rubik's Cube because he likes me. You only give miniature ovens to people who, when you imagine them contracting cuts, burns, and salmonella, make you smile. Hand me that pen."

Within seconds of trying to wedge the blocks apart with the tip of the pen, there was was a rather loud crack and a piece of bright yellow plastic flew across the room, landing by Chase's feet. "Damn," House muttered. "He wasn't lying."

IV.

The plan was simple: invite Wilson over, get Wilson drunk, pry into Wilson's emotional state.

It wasn't even that he wanted to know Wilson's... feelings, but his friend had been quiet lately. Not only that, but he'd been spending more time with House. He'd hang out in the diagnostic conference room when his shift had ended, lingering for an hour or so, provided House was staying that long. He also came by earlier on mornings when he drove them both to the hospital, lounging on House's couch until the older doctor was ready to go.

Of course, Wilson's pathetic home life was nothing new, especially now that he was living in a hotel. But this was bordering on clingy, and it was getting a bit annoying. He hated it when Wilson dropped in on a diagnostic session, because lately the oncologist had been predicting the scathing remarks House flung at his fellows, and beating House to it. That wasn't so bad in itself, except that Wilson always made the sharpest taunts sound like gentle admonishments. It made House feel sick sometimes.

The plan was simple and should have gone without a hitch. Unfortunately, the plan was foiled when Wilson brought the best damn beer House had had in ages.

Damn Wilson and his Canadian microbreweries!

He had a sneaking suspicion that he was as drunk as Wilson. He decided to test that theory. "Hey Jimmy, how drunk are you?" He managed with only a little slurring.

Wilson turned bleary eyes to him. He was sitting sprawled against the arm of the couch, with his feet propped up on the coffee table, angled towards House. The diagnostician was on the middle of the couch, separated from his friend only by a bowl of popcorn. Boy Scout popcorn. Wilson had brought it, which seemed inordinately amusing at the moment.

Wilson shrugged. "Same as you?" He hazarded.

"Yeah, thought so."

They settled back into silence. The television was on mute, though House wasn't sure when that had happened. Meerkat Manor wasn't like The L Word - audio actually improved the story line. House picked at a stubborn kernel caught in his teeth and finally won the battle. Running his tongue over his now popcorn-free teeth, something occurred to him.

He focused on Wilson and quietly said, "The chain saw starts when you're alone, doesn't it?"

Wilson managed to look tired, bemused, and a little alarmed all at once. It was an impressive facial display that made ample use of his eyebrows. "What are you talking about?"

"The meta... metaphorical chain saw. Is that why you backorder wives?"

Perhaps worn out from the previous expression, Wilson settled for just looking tired this time. "I don't know what you're on about. Sorry."

House bit his lip and nodded. "Fine. Forget it."

"Ask me tomorrow."

"Yeah." But he knew he wouldn't. With any luck he'd forget the question. He was starting to see a picture, and it wasn't anything he had expected. He wasn't sure it was anything he could handle.


End file.
